


Geyser

by poppunkpadfoot



Series: a body from the balcony [3]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Community: HPFT, Dark Magic, First War with Voldemort, Internalized Homophobia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-28 02:41:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22946449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poppunkpadfoot/pseuds/poppunkpadfoot
Summary: He should leave, he thinks, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches the rise and fall of Iain’s breathing. He should do it now, while Iain is asleep - he can leave the spare key on the bedside table and avoid the messiness of a real goodbye. Because Iain wants him to stay, and Sirius can’t say no. He’d tried, he really had, but he’d caved so easily that he might as well not have bothered.
Relationships: Sirius Black & James Potter, Sirius Black/Original Male Character(s)
Series: a body from the balcony [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1507889
Comments: 3
Kudos: 20





	Geyser

**Author's Note:**

> This is named after the Mitski song of the same name, which inspired this particular instalment!
> 
> Endless thanks to facingthenorthwind for all their help with this story, and to Crimson Quill on HPFT for the quick beta!

When Iain falls asleep, Sirius slips out of bed as carefully as possible and pulls out his wand.

He’s gotten practiced in casting protection spells over the last few years; he honestly isn’t sure why he didn’t think of this earlier. Throwing a wary look towards the bed to make sure Iain’s definitely out - which he is, sprawled out on his stomach and snoring gently into his pillow - he stands in the centre of the room and starts to whisper incantations.

It’s a little trickier than usual, because, although Sirius doesn’t want to think about it, he’s seen with his own two eyes that he’s not the only person Iain’s been having over. So, he can’t cast anything that will keep everyone but Iain out, if for no other reason than to keep him from noticing anything odd. He manages to come up with some workable alternatives, though, and he casts all of them as quietly as he can.

When he’s done that, he hides his wand again, and then he climbs back into bed. Iain twitches a little but doesn’t wake, and Sirius curls up next to him and lets himself, for once, really look at him; lets his eyes roam over Iain’s unsuspecting face, which is half-buried in the pillow, but not so hidden that Sirius can’t take him in.

He can barely resist the urge to reach out and touch him, to trace his fingers over his lips or to press kisses along his shoulder blade. He’s so beautiful like this that Sirius can hardly breathe. The thought of anything happening to him is… it makes Sirius’s blood run cold. Iain has been nothing but good to him, and all Sirius can offer him in return is danger. He doesn’t deserve any of this, and Sirius doesn’t deserve him.

He should leave, he thinks, his heart hammering in his chest as he watches the rise and fall of Iain’s breathing. He should do it now, while Iain is asleep - he can leave the spare key on the bedside table and avoid the messiness of a real goodbye. Because, for whatever unfathomable reason, Iain wants him to stay - even though Sirius is broken, and fickle, and somehow needy and distant at the same time - and Sirius can’t say no. He’d tried, he really had, but he’d caved so easily that he might as well not have bothered.

But Iain isn’t awake now to protest, and so Sirius _knows_ he should leave; but instead he lies there, frozen, unable to bring himself to get out of bed, and eventually the sky lightens outside the window, and then Iain wakes up and his opportunity is lost.

He rolls over and wraps Sirius tightly up in his arms, and Sirius goes without resistance, even though he knows he shouldn’t, he shouldn’t be here at all, he shouldn’t ever have come back after that first time - but he’s here, so he goes, and wonders if Iain can feel how fast his heart is beating.

“As lovely as this is,” Iain murmurs after only a few minutes, “I’m famished. I don’t suppose you want to stay for breakfast…?”

Normally, this is when Sirius would make his excuses, get dressed and slip out while Iain busies himself in the kitchen. But this morning, he sits on the counter and watches Iain scramble eggs and fry up sausages, and he catches all the little delighted glances that Iain’s trying to be furtive about.

“I’m not much of a cook,” he says modestly as he passes Sirius a plate, and Sirius doesn’t bother to tell him that it’s the first time in weeks that he’s had an actual home-cooked meal. He just smiles and thanks him, and the two of them eat in companionable silence.

Given how relaxed and quiet the morning has been, Sirius is caught entirely off-guard when Iain, having cleared away their plates and done the dishes, stands in front of him, takes his hands, and says, “So… about these people who are trying to hurt you.”

He’s quite glad Iain waited until they were finished eating, because he’s quite sure he would’ve choked. As it is, he’s not sure he can answer, because his throat has closed up with panic.

“Are you in the mob or something?” Iain prompts when Sirius takes too long to answer. “Because I know I said last night that we can work this out, but on second thought, if you’re in the mob, that might be a bit of a dealbreaker.”

Sirius just blinks at him - he’s not entirely sure what “the mob” is, so he’s not sure what to say. However, whatever “the mob” is, he’s certain he’s not part of it, so after a moment he just says, “No, I’m not,” and hopes that will be sufficient.

“Well, that’s a relief,” Iain says with a warm smile. “But if you’re not a criminal element, why are people trying to kill you?”

“Did I say anything about killing?” Sirius counters as lightly as he can, hoping that he doesn’t look as cornered as he feels. It’s pedantic, really, because the Death Eaters certainly do want to kill him - but since he can’t exactly explain about the Death Eaters, he feels like he should try to steer the conversation away from murder. Although… he does need to impress on Iain that this is serious, that he needs to watch his back. This is all so fucking complicated - if only he had never…

Because he’s pathetic and, apparently, in love, he can’t even bring himself to finish that thought.

Iain, in response to his question, has simply raised an unimpressed eyebrow. Sirius sighs heavily. He’s clearly not getting out of this conversation - what’s that thing Remus says, about worms in a can? Is there a way to explain Voldemort and his batshit cult without having to explain the Wizarding World?

“It’s - it’s really hard to explain,” he fumbles. “They’re this… this organization, I suppose, and I - I should be protected, because of my family, except I’ve been disowned by my family, so now I’m fair game. I don’t really know how to explain them to you, but - they’ve got this leader, and they’re all carrying out his twisted agenda and I - I’ve been trying to fight them, but now they know about you and I…”

He trails off, because Iain is looking at him like… he can’t quite put his finger on it, but there’s worry in his eyes. He brings one hand up to cup Sirius’s face, stroking his thumb gently over his cheekbone.

“Maybe you should see a doctor,” he says, not unkindly, and Sirius’s heart sinks. Iain thinks he’s crazy. He’s pretty sure that’s the implication here, anyway. Sirius can hardly blame him; hell, he sometimes thinks he’s crazy too. And it’s… it’s better, he thinks, that Iain thinks he’s crazy, than it would be for Iain to know what’s really going on. That doesn’t take the sting away, though.

“I don’t mean anything bad by it,” Iain continues when Sirius doesn’t respond. “Just… you were really scared last night, and - I mean… maybe you don’t have to keep being scared. You know?”

Part of him wants to protest - wants to tell Iain that he’s wrong, that he’s not crazy, that he has very good reasons to be scared. But the other part of him is so, so tired. He knows he won’t convince Iain of anything just by protesting - not without seriously violating the Statute of Secrecy, in any case - and he doesn’t want to make this any worse than it already is.

So instead of protesting, he tries for a smile. “Yeah,” he manages, “that’s - maybe that’s a good idea. I’ll try to look into it.”

It’s a bold-faced lie, of course, but it brings a relieved smile to Iain’s face. “Good,” he says softly, “that’s really good. Just… let me know if you need any help with it, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Sirius agrees, and Iain leans up to kiss him, and for a moment it’s good. For a moment he’s not scared. The inside of his head goes quiet, and everything is Iain’s lips against his and the weight of his hands on his skin.

But he pulls away, and the moment ends, and everything comes crashing back into his head at once.

***

He insists on walking Iain to work, which, as it turns out, is a sandwich shop near Picadilly Circus, and it’s… he can’t pretend it’s not strange, to be out together in the daylight, in public. Sure, they went for breakfast that one time, but they haven’t done anything like that since. But it’s nice. They get to the shop, and Iain is bold enough to lean in and peck him on the cheek before he ducks inside.

Once he’s gone, Sirius takes a moment to cast a few quick protective charms on the sandwich shop as well. Then, he makes his way home.

When he walks in the door, he more or less goes straight for the whiskey.

The apartment and the sandwich shop are one thing - he can at least do _something_ to protect Iain at home and at work (even though that something won’t be nearly enough if the Death Eaters go after him with any sort of serious effort - he takes another deep swig, trying to push that thought out of his mind), but there’s nothing he can do when Iain’s out in the open. He can’t just sequester Iain away in his apartment, and he can’t accompany him everywhere he goes. Lestrange could get to him so easily if he wanted to. He could torture him to insanity, he could… he could turn him inside out, disembowel him, rip him limb from limb - or he could skip all that and just kill him instantly, silently, without leaving so much as a mark. And if it happens, it will be all Sirius’s fault - for being so goddamn selfish, so stupid, so… so…

Before he even knows what he’s doing, he’s slamming his fist into his living room wall. The drywall smashes with the impact; his hand goes straight through the wall. For a moment he just stands there like that, breathing heavily, trying and failing to slow his racing heart. When he pulls his hand free of the drywall, blood drips from his knuckles onto the floor.

“Shit,” he mumbles, but makes no move to staunch the bleeding. Instead, he lifts his bottle to his mouth again and drinks.

He’s most of the way through the remainder of the bottle when there’s a knock on his door.

Normally, that would set him right on edge; today, he doesn’t even bother to pick up his wand from his desk on his way to answer. What good would it do? In this state he’s sure Death Eaters could dispatch him easily, with or without his wand. Right now, he’s not even sure he cares.

Then again, Death Eaters probably wouldn’t bother to knock, would they?

“Hello?” he says half-heartedly through the wood of the door.

“Sirius, we need to talk,” comes James’s voice from the other side, and Sirius barely holds in a groan. Given the events of the day before, this is much worse than Death Eaters.

He wants to tell him to go away, but he’s sure that would just make everything much worse. So he just sighs and starts flipping the locks open - seven in total, made more difficult by his fumbling fingers. He finally manages it, though, and swings the door open, revealing James and the reproachful look on his face.

“You’re supposed to ask me for a password.”

Sirius waves his hand dismissively, the one that’s not still clutching on to the dregs of his Bushmills. Unfortunately, this draws James’s attention to his bloodied knuckles - his reproachful expression slips right into ‘concerned’, which promptly morphs into ‘incredulous’ when he finally notices the bottle in Sirius’s right hand.

“What are you - it’s not even noon, Padfoot.”

“So?”

“I - what do you mean, so? Why are you drinking hard liquor before lunchtime?”

“Do you have any better ideas?” His words don’t slur together, and he can’t help but be pleased; that’s one scrap of dignity he can hang on to.

“What are you talking about? Better ideas for what?”

“I don’t know - coping with the fact that I’m a massive piece of shit, mostly.”

“A piece of shit? What are you talking about? Who — look, if you’re not going to ask me, I’m bloody well going to ask you, you’re worrying me, Padfoot. What was the impetus for our greatest invention?”

“Peeves, Filch’s office, seventy-two dungbombs,” Sirius grumbles. “Come in, I suppose.”

James looks wary, but steps inside and follows him to the living room. Sirius can see on his face the moment he sees the empty liquor bottles that Sirius hasn’t bothered to Vanish piled up on the coffee table, and the hole in the wall. His expression drops dramatically - he looks pained, and Sirius can’t bring himself to meet his eyes when he turns back towards him.

“What the fuck is going on? What happened to your wall - did you - is that why your hand is bleeding?”

Sirius shrugs, even though it very much is why his hand is bleeding, and lifts the bottle that’s still in his hand to his mouth to drain it. If James weren’t here, he’d honestly be tempted to smash it on the floor. He still has the smallest shred of self-control left though, and he places it on the table with the others instead, still carefully avoiding James’s eyes.

“We need to talk,” James says, “about what happened yesterday.”

“You know, I really don’t think we do.” He’s aiming for a light tone, but it comes out harsher than intended.

“Oh? How’s that?”

“It’s just not really any of your business, is all.”

James snorts in disbelief. “Oh, come on. We were on that stakeout together. I think whatever’s going on became my business when _Rodolphus Lestrange_ mentioned some bloke I’ve never heard of before in my life and you went absolutely mental over it.”

“I told you to forget it.” As though that was ever going to work. Next time Sirius sees Lestrange, he’s going to fucking kill him. “If it was anything you should worry about, I would tell you. Alright? Can you drop it now?”

“No, I can’t drop it! Since when do you and Rodolphus bloody Lestrange have fucking… mutual acquaintances, or whatever this person is? And family members don’t count, so don’t even start with me.”

“It’s not like that,” Sirius grits out. “Why can’t you just trust me and leave it alone?”

He finally looks up at James, in the possibly-naive hope that meeting his gaze will change his mind about pressing the issue. He wants nothing more than for this conversation to end, but without James acquiescing, he sees no way out of it - or at least, no way out that doesn’t involve letting James in on the secret he’s been trying to keep for the last five years. Any lie he could come up with would be easily dismantled; any half-truths would only breed more questions. All roads lead to Rome.

And so he locks eyes with James, and tries his hardest to convey through his face that there’s no need for him to worry. To no avail, though. James seems to soften, but only for the briefest of moments; then he sets his jaw, squares his shoulders, and says, “Who’s Iain, Sirius?”

Five years. Five whole years of… of terror, and vigilance, and constant self-monitoring; of hiding and fibbing and working _so bloody hard_ to make sure that the constant, crushing shame never bubbles to the surface to make people ask questions. He’s worked so hard, and now it’s all gone to shit, and he can’t even fully blame Lestrange because it was him who lost control like that in front of James; and moreover, it was him who was weak enough to keep going back to Iain in the first place.

If James finds out, Sirius will lose everything. He can only imagine what his reaction will be to the news that for all those years, he was sharing a dorm room - even a bed, on rare occasions - with a _faggot_. He can’t imagine it will be positive, though. And he’ll probably tell Remus and Peter as well - and then Sirius will have no one left but Iain, and if Lestrange has anything to say about that…

“Please don’t make me do this,” he hears himself say, in a voice that sounds dark and desperate and foreign to his own ears.

And James goes for his wand.

It’s a defensive stance, but Sirius still stumbles back a few steps on pure instinct. His back hits the wall, and for a long moment, all he can do is stare at James in shock. He wants to ask him what the fuck he’s doing, but the words won’t leave his throat. James, for his part, is unwavering - his jaw tight, his expression resolute, only a slight waver in his aim betraying the shaking of his hands. Sirius’s own wand is still over on the desk - if he were to need it, he’d be completely out of luck. But why would he - what had he said, to make James think he needed to - ?

Then it hits him like a lightning bolt - James thinks he’s a spy.

Fuck, it’s… it makes _sense_ , from James’s perspective. They haven’t seen each other outside Order meetings and stakeouts in weeks; he’s been strenuously avoiding talking about himself, withdrawing from everybody; staying quiet at meetings and sometimes leaving straight afterwards (to go to the pubs, or to Iain’s - but James doesn’t know that) - and now this whole incident with Lestrange - and Dumbledore had _just_ warned them about a possible spy after Dorcas’s murder…

With all that in mind, everything he’s said since James got here has been pretty suspicious.

He swallows a few times, trying to push down the urge to vomit, and also because his mouth has gone so dry that he doesn’t think he can speak.

“He’s a Muggle,” he manages to choke out, and then he sinks down the wall onto the floor.

James’s wand hand wavers a little, but he seems to remember himself and straightens up again, keeping it trained on Sirius. “How do you know a Muggle?”

“He’s just - I met him at a pub, it wasn’t anything -”

“Wait, no, better question - what are you doing with a Muggle? Why does Lestrange care about some Muggle you know?”

“I-” Sirius hesitates, because this is it. He can’t skirt around this any longer, not if he doesn’t want James to at best hex him into next week and at worst bring him into the Order where Moody might actually kill him. He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor by his feet - he can’t bring himself to look at James, can’t stand to watch the expression on his face change at Sirius’s next words.

“I’m in love with him,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper; but you could hear a pin drop in the room, so it doesn’t matter - James hears him anyway.

“You - what?” James says, but Sirius doesn’t respond; he’s not sure he could get the words out again if he wanted to.

“You’re…? But - but you - at school, you never-” James trails off again, and now his wand is pointing somewhere in the vicinity of Sirius’s ankles instead of at his heart. “I don’t understand - how could you keep this from me? I thought we were brothers.”

“We - we are,” Sirius says, and he hates how uncertain he sounds. “I just - I was afraid.”

“Of what? Of me?” James, for his part, sounds almost angry. There’s a slight tremble in his voice. “Why would you think that you had anything to be afraid of? I mean - for Merlin’s sake, Remus is a bloody werewolf and we’re friends with him.”

“That’s not - that’s different,” Sirius manages, curling his fingers against his palms so his nails dig into the skin. “Remus doesn’t have a _choice_. He can’t help that he’s a werewolf, it’s not - it’s not _him_.”

“Of course he can’t help it - I don’t see what that has to do with -”

“I’ve tried to stop,” Sirius interrupts, his voice strained. He still can’t bring himself to look up at James. “I really, really have, I swear, but I can’t.”

“Stop…?”

“Seeing Iain. Going to the Muggle pubs. All of it. I’ve _tried_. But I’m not - I _can’t_. I just can’t. I’m not strong enough, okay?”

“What are you talking about? Why would you need to stop?” James sounds genuinely baffled, and it makes fury surge up inside of him.

“Don’t act like this is okay!” he shouts back, but the end of his sentence gets tangled up in a sob; he squeezes his eyes shut and bites down hard on his lip, trying to stop the tears from coming, but to no avail. He sobs again, and then again, and then he can’t stop; and he covers his face with his hands, as though that’s going to hide anything from James when he’s still standing right there, with his wand presumably still pointed right at him.

Except then there’s a clatter and suddenly James is right there next to him, pulling him in against his shoulder. As has become standard, Sirius can’t bring himself to resist. He goes easily, curls his fingers into James’s shirt, and weeps until, just as abruptly as it came on, it abates.

“Alright?” James asks softly, resting his chin on top of Sirius’s head. Sirius snorts in response - it’s kind of a silly question - but he does manage to detach himself from James and sit up straight, which is a slight improvement. His eyes itch and his face feels all hot, but he’s no longer hysterical, and… and he has to admit that he does feel a bit lighter. Less panicked, anyway.

“How about I make you some tea?” James suggests, getting to his feet before Sirius even answers. Sirius doesn’t particularly want tea - he wants more whiskey if anything - but he knows that making it is a ritual James finds soothing, so he doesn’t bother to refuse. Instead, he pulls himself off the floor and sinks into the sofa instead, listening as James clatters around in the kitchen.

He returns in fairly short order with two steaming mugs, and settles himself carefully on the other side of the couch, letting their knees bump together companionably. Sirius accepts the mug that James is offering him, and leaves his knee where it is, but he doesn’t speak. He’s already said far more than he’d wanted to to James today. James, unfortunately, seems to have other ideas. He only lets the silence stretch out for a few minutes before he pipes up.

“Does he know?”

“What, about magic?” Sirius replies, disgruntled but unwilling to risk not answering. “No, I haven’t broken the Statute of Secrecy for him - and I’m not planning to, if that’s your next question, not when he doesn’t even - there’s no point.”

“That isn’t what I meant - although I was wondering,” James admits. “But I meant - what you told me before. Just now.”

He has to think back - a lot of things had been said ‘just now’ - but when he realizes what James means, he can’t help the snort he lets out.

“No. He doesn’t know that either,” he says shortly. “And he’ll find out over my dead body.”

“What - why? I mean, what if he -”

“If you’re going to say ‘feels the same’, don’t bother. He doesn’t.”

“Did he tell you that?” James sounds almost amused, the prick. But Iain doesn’t need to _tell_ him anything. He knows. There’s the other men, for one thing - and although Sirius knows that’s common, nothing personal, he can’t help but take it as proof that he’s just one of many. And why shouldn’t he be? He has given Iain no reason to love him - none at all.

He could explain all this to James - could give him a list, committed to memory, of all the ways that he has treated Iain badly, all the ways that he’s been selfish and thoughtless and a glutton. But he very much doesn’t want to talk about any of that, and moreover, there’s no reason to. James didn’t come here to find out about the finer points of how Sirius doesn’t deserve Iain, he came to confront him about the mole. They have, in Sirius’s humble opinion, strayed far off-topic.

“It doesn’t matter either way,” he insists. “Unless somehow the difference-maker on whether or not I’m a Death Eater spy is… is Iain loving me back.”

At that, James looks somewhat chastised. He sets his tea down on the coffee table amongst the bottles and looks down at his hands in his lap. “It’s - no, it’s not,” he says hesitantly. “Look, it’s not - I haven’t been harbouring suspicions against you or anything. I never thought it could be you before yesterday. And - and I don’t now. I’m sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Sirius says dismissively, mostly because he really doesn’t want to think about that anymore either. (He’s sure it will be one of the things that keeps him up tonight, though.) “Let’s just forget about it, okay?”

James looks like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t - just sighs and nods. They both finish their tea before either of them speak again.

“What are you going to do?” James asks. “About Rodolphus, I mean.”

“I don’t know,” Sirius admits bitterly. “I put some wards up at his flat and his job, but I don’t have to tell you that those won’t do shit if Rodolphus or whoever puts literally any effort in. If there’s anything else than can be done I don’t know about it. I mean - without breaking the Statute and ruining his life.”

“Well... “ James scratches his chin, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. He doesn’t seem to want to meet Sirius’s gaze, which, combined with his body language, probably means that he doesn’t think Sirius is going to like whatever he’s thinking.

He’s about to protest that he already _tried_ cutting it off with Iain - he’d even explained that already, although he’d dumped so much new information on James all at once that he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s forgotten - when James instead says something rather unexpected. “I think I have an idea.”

**

James’s idea is… not something he’d ever have imagined James suggesting, nor is it something he’d ever have pictured himself doing not so long ago. But if war has taught him anything, it’s that there can be a lot of grey in things he used to see as black and white. So here he is, digging through a pile of old books that James had covertly collected from Knockturn Alley, looking for any protection rituals that might be more effective than the standard wards, even if they’re… frowned upon. (A much nicer way to put it than “morally questionable and possibly illegal”.)

It’s not the most pleasant work - the things he sees in passing range from ‘mildly disturbing’ to ‘horrifying’, and if he’d been sleeping badly before, he’s somehow sleeping even worse now. Whenever he does manage to doze off, he dreams about eyeballs liquifying and people getting turned inside out.

He’d used a translation spell on the astronomy textbook, given it a quick once-over, and sent it in to the publisher. He doesn’t have time for distractions right now.

James comes over again a few days after bringing him the books, by which time Sirius has already gone through most of them to no avail. He doesn’t comment on the tumbler that Sirius is already halfway through when he arrives; after looking through one of the remaining books for about twenty minutes, he pours himself a drink as well. He keeps pulling faces down at the page, so Sirius has to assume that the book he’s chosen is gruesome.

Sirius’s book, on the other hand, isn’t so bad. The only diagrams in it are of ingredients and instruments, rather than results. It makes for a welcome change of pace after all the gore.

It’s in this book that he finally, finally finds something useful.

It’s an entirely unassuming spell, accompanied only by a small illustration of a gemstone ( _Alexandrite_ , says the label), and a few warnings - that the worst curses will still do damage, that nothing can make the wearer completely impervious, and that the spell can’t be used to protect one’s own self. The word ‘love’ floats off the page and hits him with surprising force right in the chest.

“James,” he says, a little breathlessly, and shoves the book across the table towards him.

He watches as James skims the page, his eyes widening almost comically - first in horror, at the actual ritual, but then again when he sees the results.

“I mean - if you’re sure you’re willing to -”

“I am,” Sirius cuts him off, and goes hot with embarrassment at the tone in his voice - a tone that says _I’d do anything_ , that says _fuck off, of course I will - I love him, I love him -_

Really, he hardly recognizes himself. _Love_ , of all things.

James lets it lie though, moves on without further comment, instead looking back down at the page and furrowing his brow. “Hm… this stone could be tricky though. _Alexandrite_ , what even is that?”

It is, they discover after a quick peruse of the book’s glossary, one of the rarest gems on earth; it changes colour, the book says, depending on the light - it’s apparently green in sunlight, red in lamplight - and real ones, high-quality ones, are hard to find, even for those with deep pockets.

“Well,” says James despondently, “shit.”

For a moment, Sirius half-wishes he still had access to the Black family’s connections, since he’s sure there would be a friend of a friend who specialised in fuck-off expensive gemstones. Of course, if he still had Black family connections he wouldn’t be trying to do a ritual to protect the Muggle man he’s been sleeping with, so… swings and roundabouts, he supposes.

He and James do try to brainstorm ways they could get their hands on a piece of Alexandrite; not to mention the other, shadier ingredients that the ritual calls for. (Unicorn blood? He’s pretty sure this ritual’s going to curse him or something. Worth it, but still a bit daunting.) They don’t come up with much, though, besides “check Knockturn Alley as discreetly as possible”, and eventually James has to go home and Sirius decides to put on a Sex Pistols record as loudly as possible and try to forget the whole situation.

It does not work.

Over the next few days, he does try to ask all the people he can think of - but even after a thoroughly unpleasant afternoon in Knockturn Alley he’s no closer to actually getting any Alexandrite. (Although he does manage to get ahold of some unicorn blood, for which he has to hand over an entire pouch full of galleons. He feels dirty just holding it.) He _still_ can’t sleep without nightmares, but now all the gore and the various scenes of Iain’s death are interspersed with images of sparkling, ever-changing gemstones.

It is, ironically, in a nightmare completely unrelated to the whole mess that he sees it. He’s at a dinner party, and there are endless courses of food he hates, and all the relatives he loathes keep making snide remarks at every opportunity, and he is strongly considering Apparating away, though in the dream he doesn’t know how. He’s just thinking that maybe he should look for a fireplace - and some Floo powder - when someone says his name in a way that does not communicate ‘you will absolutely get a beating later’, which draws his attention because it’s just so out of place. He turns around to see his Uncle Alphard - who had always had a soft spot for Sirius, though Sirius could never work out why. (It has occurred to him, once or twice, that it may have had something to do with the fact that Alphard was rather conspicuously unmarried, but he’s mostly been trying not to think about it.) Uncle Alphard is wearing what Sirius had last seen him in, at an otherwise unremarkable social function a month before Sirius left for good. Impeccably tailored robes in a fashion that is not old fashioned - but more the sort of fashion that never went out of style, rich navy blue tones accented by a set of rings that would probably look gaudy if Sirius ever tried them. And the ring on his middle finger... seems to change colour when Alphard reaches out towards him.

As Alphard’s hand touches him, Sirius jolts awake.

Almost before he’s even fully conscious, he’s scrambling out of bed, turning on the light and rushing over to his closet, which he flings open before dropping onto his knees and grabbing the dusty cardboard box that’s crammed into the back corner.

When Alphard had died back in 1977, Sirius had been rather stunned to learn that he had left Sirius quite a large inheritance. It had mostly been money - which Sirius is, of course, _extremely_ grateful for - but there had also been a box of personal effects and family heirlooms, which Sirius had accepted from the lawyer and then immediately stowed away without so much as a glance inside. He didn’t want any of it, and he didn’t want to have to think about it. But - what if -

Without hesitation, he dumps the entire box out onto the floor, paying no mind to the ceramic something-or-other that shatters upon impact. He rummages through the pile, pushing aside all manner of baubles and brooches and whatever other posh nonsense his great-uncle had left to him, and he’s just about to give up when he finally spots it.

It’s the same ring, he’s sure of it; it’s set in a silver band with an ornate raised design on it, and the gem is a dark, purplish-red in the lamplight. He feels a small surge of triumph before he realizes that, technically, he’ll have to wait until daybreak to check whether the gem changes colour. He’s not exactly sure what time it is, but he can see that it’s very much still dark out - which he assumes means he has a few hours to kill.

He is going to vibrate out of his skin. It would be great if he could manage to put his energy into something productive, like cleaning. Lily does that. But he knows from experience that if he tries to do anything useful right now, he will mostly just… well, for example, if he were to try to clean, it would just consist of him picking things up, putting them down exactly where he found them and then making his room even messier by trying on every outfit he owns. In other words - he isn’t going to be able to concentrate.

He considers going to have a drink, but it is… probably around 3 in the morning, and it’s not that he doesn’t ever drink at 3 in the morning (he does, quite frequently), but something about… _starting his day_ with a drink is just… look, he’s ashamed enough as it is, and he feels like that would be too much. He has the tiniest dregs of dignity left and he’s not ready to let go of them yet.

So he gets out his stash of pot instead.

He hasn’t smoked much since… well, since he started drinking so much, but it feels more appropriate now. So before too long, he’s lying on the couch in the living room, a joint in his fingers and a record playing quietly on his turntable. He keeps all the lights off and positions the ring on the window sill, in a spot where he can see it while lying down.

Hours later, after he’s given up on switching over records and is simply sitting there in silence, sunlight floods the room, and the gem turns green.

**

“Holy shit! Where did you find this?!”

At any other time, Sirius might laugh at the look on James’s face right now - he just looks so openly gobsmacked as he examines Alphard’s ring. But right now he’s not so much in the teasing mood. He’d managed to wait two whole hours after sunrise before he’d Floo’d James and asked him to come over for a minute; luckily, James had already been awake (he always has been an almost preternaturally early riser), so Sirius hadn’t been disturbing him. He’s inconvenienced James enough with this whole situation, he doesn’t need to add ‘waking him up at ungodly hours’ to the list.

Before he’d gone over, he’d opened all the windows and cast a quick charm to make the room smell less suspicious. He’d also cleaned up all the bottles that had been lying around his apartment. His eyes are still red, because he couldn’t figure out what to do about that, but at least he has an excuse ready, since he’d started crying when the gem changed colour. He can just blame the redness on that if James notices.

“It was in a box of shit my Uncle Alphard left me,” he replies. “Thank Merlin, because I’ve been looking fucking everywhere all week and I’ve had zero luck.”

Which brings him to his dilemma.

He’d realized, while waiting for the sun to rise, that he’s a colossal asshole. Well, he’d known that already. It might be more accurate to say that he’s _being_ a colossal asshole. James has just told him that Lily’s _pregnant_ , and here he is getting James to help him protect Iain, without giving a single thought to the fact that he might want to protect his _wife_.

Now - Sirius needs to protect Iain, obviously, since it’s entirely his fault that Iain’s in danger in the first place, but he’s pretty sure that protecting Iain at the expense of Lily’s safety would be… ‘a dick move’ might be putting it mildly. And besides, of the two of them, Sirius is pretty sure he’d have an easier time hunting down a second Alexandrite than James would. So…

“Do you want to take it?” he asks, a little gruffly.

James blinks at him cartoonishly. “What? Why would I take it? What about Iain?”

“I mean... I thought you might want it for Lily. You know, with the baby and all. I’m sure I could find another Alexandrite with a bit more effort.”

He honestly expects James to at least pause and consider it, if not jump on the offer immediately, so he’s really quite surprised when James, without so much as pausing, shakes his head.

“That’s really generous of you, Padfoot, but it’s alright. We have other ways to protect Lily, plus she can handle herself. Iain’s a Muggle, he can’t defend himself or anything. You should stick to the plan and give it to him.”

“Well - alright then,” Sirius says, disoriented. “Do you want me to keep looking around, then? For a second one?”

“It’s really alright, mate.” James gives him a rueful smile and pats him on the back. “It’s just… look, I know Lily, and she… she wouldn’t want me to do this for her. The ritual, I mean. And I don’t want to go behind her back or anything.”

“Why wouldn’t she?” Something about James’s expression is making him feel a bit of… well, something like ‘trepidation’. “I mean, if it’ll protect her and your… your baby, then why not?”

He really hopes James didn’t notice the way he just stumbled over the word ‘baby’, but it’s a bit hard to tell, because James is currently refusing to meet his eyes.

“It’s just… slicing yourself open? Fucking around with unicorn blood? This is dark shit, Sirius,” he says, fiddling with his wedding band. “I understand why you’re doing it, I’m not judging you or anything, but… Merlin. Lily would probably be annoyed that I’ve even been looking at this stuff. She really wouldn’t want me to go any further for her.”

All of that is perfectly reasonable, but Sirius can’t help but feel a bit stung. As certain as he is, in a rational sense, that James doesn’t mean anything he’s said as a dig, that doesn’t quell the feeling that James thinks he’s doing something wrong - that James thinks he _is_ wrong. 

“Right,” he says, his throat tight. “Of - of course. Well… speaking of Lily, you should get home. I’m sure she’ll be up soon, she’ll wonder where you’ve got off to.”

James looks back at him with a frown, and he hurriedly turns away, busying himself with the book - flipping it open and pretending to check the list of ingredients again, as though he hasn’t long since committed it to heart.

“I’m happy to stay and help you out, Padfoot,” James says, with concern apparent in his voice. But the familiar sensation of creeping, oozing shame is spreading itself through Sirius’s guts, worming itself into all the little crevices and setting off the alarm in the back of his mind that says _drink, now, drink drink drink_. (He can’t, of course; he will need steady hands, at the very least, but that knowledge doesn’t do anything to suppress the urge.) He does not want James to stick around and watch him pull himself apart for a man who James will never even meet. He does not want company while he drains his own blood into a bowl, while he holds his heart out into the darkness and says _take it, take it, please, I’ll do anything._ The last couple of weeks have already thrown him off of a precipice; he doesn’t want James to see him fall any further.

So he shakes his head. “It’s fine, Prongs. I’ve got it under control. Thanks anyway, though.”

“Sirius -”

“I’ll let you know how it goes,” he interrupts with finality. “Thanks for all your help. Really. I’ll talk to you later.”

Thankfully, James stops protesting. With a sigh, he heads back towards the fireplace. Sirius hears him pause before he throws the Floo powder in, but he doesn’t look back at him, instead pretending to be engrossed in the book. Then, finally, there is a whoosh of flames, and Sirius is alone.

It's time to get started.


End file.
